March 30, 2007

Colby Kennedy's College Essay

Ruth Fremson/The New York Times

Colby Kennedy

Colby Kennedy wrote the following college application essay on a teacher, Albert Cho.

(a) Newton’s First Law of Motion states that an object in motion tends to stay in motion in the same direction unless acted upon by an external force. Tell us about an external influence (a person, an event, etc.) that affected you and how it caused you to change directions.

(b) This essay is a strong representation of my character because it illustrates my reaction in the face of an obstacle. It describes a teacher who was significant in my intellectual growth and reveals a fundamental change in my academic perspective. I embraced the challenge my teacher presented and matured immensely because of it.

*****

I do not promise you ease. I do not promise you comfort. But I do promise you these hardships: weariness and suffering. And with them, I promise you victory.- Giuseppe Garibaldi

It was with this quote that my high school career commenced. I had always been fascinated by reading and learning and was accustomed to excelling as a student, but when Mr. Cho, my World History teacher, read these words before 25 wide-eyed freshmen on the first day of school, it was indisputably clear that this class would be a challenge.

Mr. Cho had never before taught freshmen.

He assigned excerpts from Machiavelli’s The Prince and from The Art of Warfare by Sun-Tzu, over which I pored for hours, until I could understand the sophisticated vocabulary and abstract ideas. When grading my papers, he ruthlessly belied my crafted theses, demanding more direct language, more specific evidence, more concise explanation. He saw through ornate language to identify a poorly justified point. He was the true devil’s advocate, his unrelenting questions poking holes in my every argument. I soon learned to ask those same questions of myself when writing an essay. I examined the material from every angle until my case could withstand his meticulous scrutiny. I was driven by the prospect of finagling even the sparsest praise, but eventually came to derive the same satisfaction from the magnificence of a succinct, unassailable argument.

At the end of first term, I had earned a B+ in Mr. Cho’s class, the lowest grade on my report card. But I had worked most vigorously for that B+, and it was the grade of which I was most proud. I raised my grade to an A as the academic year drew to a close, actualizing the promise Mr. Cho had made on the very first day. Because he demanded higher level thinking, I struggled until I had mastered the concepts. Because he criticized me so unremittingly, I learned to think objectively about my own work.

I felt exceptionally prepared entering my sophomore year and continued to improve, reminding myself often of Mr. Cho’s criticisms: his objection to ambiguity and omission, his demand for absolute accuracy, his insistence upon a clear thesis. From the preliminary research to the final stages of editing, I asked myself: would Mr. Cho approve? Would he accuse me of focusing too narrowly? Would he encourage me to examine the motives of the authors I consulted?

That spring, I discovered that Mr. Cho would teach an American Studies course for juniors. I enrolled in the class, knowing it would entail the overwhelming workload, and challenging thinking I had come to enjoy. He began that year with another quote: “Inaction is acceptance; always question” (Austin Stewart).

Mr. Cho presented the class with this challenge, and I accepted, improving dramatically as a true academic. Through his exceptional teaching and standard of perfection, he changed my fundamental approach to critical thinking. I have learned to challenge my preconceptions, my sources, my peers, and, most importantly, myself.